On Wednesday I had a bit of a breakthrough and flooded my therapist's phone with what really happened to me back in 1996. I see her this afternoon at 4 p.m..

I feel awful for being an ass, but I also feel awful for what happened to me, not to mention the story I told to save face. Not to mention how it seems to dovetail with my current situation. Or at least run parallel.

Just want to say at the time I was fairly certain nobody cared. I know my biological father would act concerned but ultimately do nothing. My biological mother? She's a monster. My sister doesn't want to hear about that kind of shit from me. I didn't have real friends either. Shit, I wonder if I wrote the 'told story' at heptapod.org.

Wednesday afternoon, after message storming my therapist, I called my friend in Bloomfield who listened to me and was genuinely concerned for me. I am grateful. I have a lot to process.

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